The Dragon, the Witch and the Wardrobe
by PetraNori
Summary: Draco's life isn't turning out the way he thought it would. Hermione is determined to help her friends survive. With Voldemort's return, their world is changing and neither of them know just how upside-down it's about to become. Beginning with HBP, possibly through DH. Staying mostly canon except for the obvious Dramione. Will most likely remain rated T. We'll see how it goes!
1. Chapter 1

The Dragon, the Witch and the Wardrobe

 **AN: Hey readers. I'm trying something new. Still working on the other fic but this is one I've wanted to do for a while and I'd like to finally start in on it. Some of you already know that my free time is pretty limited and I can't promise constant updates as I'm basically working two full-time jobs and attempting to go back to school to pursue my career soon. I'm jumping straight into this but it's been a while so please excuse my writing if it's rusty. It's a bit intimidating to finally post a HP fanfic, mostly because I've read so many stellar ones and I just hope mine can measure up enough to be an enjoyable read... especially with the considerable fan base for JKR's work. As I've stated in the summary, this starts off at the beginning of HBP and depending on how much time I can spare and the requests of any readers I'll try to write through Deathly Hallows as well. Aside from a few skews in Draco's upbringing, I'll try to stick as close to canon content as possible although there may be a bit of Ron bashing eventually. Can't help that, much as I love his character. I hope you enjoy this chapter even though it's horribly short. I'd love reviews if you can spare the time! Thanks for reading.**

 **P.S. Credit where it's due: the title is obviously influenced by C. S. Lewis. Don't want to mess with any copyright laws, do I?**

 **Petra**

* * *

His forearm burned. Even in the cool dark of his bedroom, even with the crisp night air blowing through his window from the expansive garden, his whole body pulsed with a kind of angry heat that made him want to scratch at it until he bled... until he sloughed off his skin like the snake that was his house mascot. But the pain was nothing to the jumble of thoughts that roared between his ears in a never ending swell. He'd always looked up to his father. He'd learned practically in the womb that some values were to be honored above all others: heritage, the purity of wizarding blood, proper conduct and a sharp eye to exploit an opponent's weakness and gain control... and family. Above all else, the need to protect and perfect his bloodline.

"A Malfoy does what is necessary to uphold his family. You must be strong enough to protect them, flawless in the eyes of your peers and ruthless in your faith to the purity of our ancestry." It was a mantra he'd memorized at his father's knee. He'd stared into those grey eyes that so matched his own and known no other truth. He'd lived to make his father proud. And here he was, traded in like some prize pig.

He scratched idly at his arm again and winced as the irritation grew into an inferno. The serpent and skull embedded in his flesh seemed to sink deeper and the inflammation only grew worse as the itch carried down into his bones. It was as good as poison. He'd done everything his family had ever expected of him, challenges be damned. But this was different. He'd had no warning before being summoned to the dining room. He'd never discussed his parents' involvement in the dark arts. It wasn't a topic they'd directly approached and he'd been too courteous and aware of his father's calculating stare to ever question the alliance. Sure, he'd known the Dark Lord had taken to presiding over gatherings in his family's estate. In his youth he'd thoughtlessly threatened his lessers, knowing full well that the Malfoy name had been feared greatly during the war. But now his father was in Azkaban and taking the mark wasn't something he'd been prepared for.

He'd never paid much attention to his aunt Bellatrix's mad ravings about her beloved Lord. She'd had plenty of time to go spare during her own imprisonment in Azkaban and while he tolerated her in the same way his mother did - with perfect respect and an impassive expression - he'd had no idea when she escorted him down the sweeping expanse of the marble hallway that his destination would be Hell itself.

He clenched his teeth, remembering that gaunt face and the lipless smile that had graced it as he knelt before the gods-damned Lord and swore his fealty. He'd had no choice. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen his mother watching beside the empty spot where his father would have stood and the betrayal that bubbled inside of him had nearly broken through the occlumency shields that he'd drilled into place so many years ago.

Occlumency had been a requirement in being both flawless and ruthless. Lucius had told him as much on countless occasions as his younger self sweated and writhed on the floor of that same room, struggling to lock his mind into safety.

But tonight the Dark Lord had smiled as though he could taste the roil of emotions as easily as if there had been no shields at all. He'd looked nearly mad with glee as he'd pushed his wand into the flesh of Draco's left arm. And then the searing pain had begun and as spots obscured his vision, Draco knew only that this was more than he'd bargained for.

He'd felt empty as his aunt practically kicked him upright again. As his remaining family did nothing but silently observe. The shock was too great. But the anger had come later.

Standing at the curtains of his balcony, Draco sifted through the memories of his upbringing for the hundredth time. There had been no mention of a future enslaved. He'd been raised to act without question, told he'd be rewarded with greatness beyond his wildest imaginings. It seemed his father had lied.

He could see the Dark Mark easily in the moonlight, the snake twining around his forearm as if determined to squeeze the perfectly pure blood right out of his veins, and wondered how many other lies he'd been fed.

* * *

Hermione huffed as she read through the Daily Prophet, flipping the pages with a sharp snap. No substantial news of Voldemort, of course. She wasn't really surprised, but she'd been hoping for _something_ aside from the drivel of reports with no lead and trivial quidditch scores and gossip. Who bloody cared which wizard caught a ball while whizzing through the air on a broomstick when the most dangerous mass-murderer in the history of the wizarding world was at large? Not to mention the total gibberish spun by the Skeeter menace as she wrote scathing lies about the mental state of both Harry and Dumbledore. She flung the paper on her bed with a scoff of disgust and turned to the pile of books on her desk. Even her beloved tomes couldn't soothe her nerves as she thought of her very best friend. Oh, she hoped Harry wasn't reading the papers. She doubted there was much else he could do, however. Being stranded with the Dursleys wasn't something she'd wish on anyone... well okay, maybe Malfoy.

Her thoughts turned to the arrogant blonde and for a moment her irritation grew. No doubt he'd enjoy waving the contents of those articles in Harry's face at start of term.

"Git." She muttered to herself, but then her eyes widened as she remembered the article in the Prophet just the week before. Lucius Malfoy had finally landed himself a cell in Azkaban. It had been front page news. How could she have forgotten?

Her frown deepened as she stared at the stack of old papers on her bedside table. She'd combed through each one, hoping to find some insight that would help Harry prepare for whatever was coming, but she hadn't spared a thought to the family of their Slytherin nemesis. She sat back down and pulled the stack onto her lap, rifling through until she found the article. Sure enough, there was a photograph of the family. Malfoy stood next to his mother, looking both pale and decidedly protective as he turned his back on the incessant flash of the cameras.

A loud meow sounded from behind her as her beloved cat settled himself on the bed and batted her arm affectionately.

"Merlin, Crooks," she sighed, scratching the kneazle cross-breed under the chin. "I have no idea what to expect this year."


	2. Chapter 2

**I've got today off so have another short chapter. I promise they will get longer once I get back into the swing of things. There's a lot of material to cover and I get sort of impatient to get to the good stuff. Hopefully things will sound less stuffy once there's more dialogue and interaction, plus I'm excited to play around with curricular material since those descriptions were some of my favorite parts in the books. Let me know what you think if you've got a moment. I do love reviews!**

 **Petra**

* * *

The manor was more silent than ever. That is, if you could ignore the gaggle of reporters that seemed to stay perpetually clustered by the front gates. His mother wouldn't look him in the eyes and the few Death Eaters he'd encountered in the halls only sniggered at "Lucius' little whelp" with expressions that belied their eagerness to see his family fall further from grace. So he'd stayed in his room, his thoughts rolling around and around in a sickened sort of panic.

Draco tugged on the sleeve of his robes as he watched the throng of reporters huddled beyond the property wards, wishing again that he'd spent more time mastering glamour charms. He'd always thought they were for petty witches who lacked the natural aristocratic features of most dignified purebloods, but the thought of Millicent or even Parkinson's face helped remind him otherwise. He'd given them marks for being born into the right families without ever looking too closely, preferring instead to mock the lower-borns. But even Granger, the mudblood who'd had teeth like a human beaver in first year and hair that could have housed the whole Hogwarts owlery on a humid day... even she had better placed features than his female cronies. Another lie he'd swallowed willingly, then.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. The know-it-all and her posse of nosy Gryffindor prats was the least of his concerns now. The task the Dark Lord had set him was another matter. Find a way to achieve the impossible and somehow sneak a whole band of Death Eaters into one of the most secure strongholds in all of Britain and then permanently eliminate the headmaster himself. He wasn't sure which feat was more daunting. There was no love lost between himself and Dumbledore. The ancient wizard had doted on Scarhead since day one and he'd always been a dotty old fool. But he was a dotty old fool with the magical capability of an army and if the Dark Lord himself hadn't been able to defeat the man, how in the name of Salazar's left testicle was Draco supposed to manage it?

And if he didn't manage it, the outcome was clear. He'd die slowly in whatever twisted way the Dark Lord decided would be most painful. He didn't want to explore the options. Even the supposed gift the Dark Lord had bestowed upon him burned. The mark hadn't taken well, raising welts that scraped painfully against even the softest robes. The skin prickled and no amount of salves the house elves gave him had helped soothe the irritation.

No, he didn't want to think about what his new Lord would do to him if he failed. He wondered briefly if it wouldn't be easier to just end his life now. Killing curse aside, he knew of plenty of artifacts in storage beneath the drawing room that would do the job. But his death would have consequences too. Who knew what level of rage his defiance would cause. His aunt had happily told him the gruesome stories of families who had betrayed her Lord's trust. It could end in bloodshed... his mother, father, all the relatives he'd been raised to protect and honor. Wiped out in a bloody smear on his family tapestry.

The room spun slightly. A cold sweat followed his nausea and he felt his stomach heave for the umpteenth time. He'd given up on food after seeing it come back up one too many times in the past few days. The gnawing hunger was gone now, replaced by a leaden knot of dread that wouldn't unravel any time soon.

So he would practice glamour charms until he could successfully hide the mark on his arm and then he would worry about the rest.

* * *

Hermione perused the list of ingredients for the third time. She frequently wished she could do magic outside of school. After a few accidental bouts of wordless magic at Hogwarts last year she had resolved to practice wand motions with an empty hand rather than get a warning howler from the ministry as Harry had done only a few years ago. When it came to cooking, however, she was more than happy to do it the muggle way. It was a lot like brewing a potion, but this was something she could enjoy with her parents. While she knew they were proud of her, she couldn't help but wonder what memories and experiences she'd missed by attending school so far from home. The kitchen was her favorite place to be over the summer holidays, helping her parents with dinner as they bantered or talked about the latest technological advances in the world of dentistry.

It was interesting to see her parents work their own sort of magic in the kitchen and she knew they'd have both excelled at potionmaking had they been born into the wizarding world. As much as they treated her academic achievements as though they were some kind of splendid miracle, Hermione knew better. Her parents were humble and kind but they could give any Ravenclaw a run for their money when logic was on the line. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to fool them into believing Hogwarts was truly safe. They loved her and only wanted the best for her, but the news of the Death Eaters attacks had spilled into the nightly news and they were clever enough to make the connection. As much as Hermione argued on behalf of her beloved school, she knew that Dumbledore's presence was the only reason she'd been given permission to return at all.

The decision was far from final, however, and she found herself worrying more and more over the coming weeks as the attacks on the muggle world reached every television program in the country by way of natural disasters and freakish architectural failures.

So she helped her parents in the kitchen and tried to muddle through, longing for the day she'd come of age and be able to actually do something to protect them... and convince them that she was strong enough to survive.

In her own mind, despite what she told her parents, she was scared. Well, who wouldn't be? The most feared wizard in history was back and his gang of homicidal maniacs were targeting families just like hers. Anyone with half a brain would be terrified, and her brain happened to be plenty more active than the average sixth year mind. She'd pulled every carefully alphabetized book off the shelves in her room as soon as she'd returned home and they now sat arranged by usefulness, their well-worn spines marked with simple muggle tags to indicate which would be best for defense, for healing potions, for destructive magics. She only hoped it was an unnecessary precaution.

She'd be leaving for the Burrow in a week's time and Godric help her, she was nervous about that too. She loved the Weasleys dearly but they were a target just as much as she was. They had wards and protection, but being around them reminded her of the time spent at Grimmauld Place last summer and the meetings she and her friends weren't yet allowed to attend. The Order of the Phoenix wasn't directly supported by the ministry. That was no shock when Fudge was too busy hiding his head in the sand to do anything worthwhile, but if anything happened to the Weasleys while the ministry looked the other way, she didn't know if she'd be able to bear it.

And then there was the matter of her friends. Ginny was always good company now that she'd gotten over her awkwardness around Harry. In fact, the girl had more fire in her than most witches she'd ever met. It was a Weasley trait. They'd become friends easily once Ginny realized Hermione felt nothing but sisterly love for the boy who lived. But Ron was another matter. Ron could twist her emotions around and around like a whisk as easily as smiling at her and then make her want to hit him over the head a second later. He was as infuriating as he was irresistible.

"All boys are like that given half the chance, Mione," Ginny had told her last year with a roll of her eyes. "I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to kill Harry myself for some of the things he's come out with. It's just that Ron is thick as pig shit when it comes to his own emotions. He'll come around."

But the thought of Ron waking up and smelling the coffee didn't seem very promising, given everything else they had to worry about now. So she pushed aside the thought and resolved to keep the butterflies to a minimum.


	3. Chapter 3

**I had a pretty wonderful nap earlier and woke up with the urge to keep writing so here's chapter three! I hope anyone reading this is enjoying it so far. Call me out if I make any typos. I've wrangled a proofreader in but I'm pretty sure they're asleep right now. I hope the pace is steady enough... I'm still fleshing out a lot of the plot but I'm doing my best to stay consistent while my ideas change. Please review if you have the time and as always, thanks for reading!**

* * *

Hermione's knees buckled as she landed in the Weasley's floo. She'd finally convinced her parents to link their fireplace to the floo network - for everyone's safety - and they'd nearly jumped out of their skin as Molly Weasley's head appeared in their fire the morning before to check if Hermione was still coming by.

It was funny enough to Hermione as her father dropped a full plate of steak and eggs on the carpet and Crookshanks had rushed forward to claim it before either of her parents even noticed. She'd hidden her giggles and knelt by the fireplace to tie up any loose ends in their schedule while her parents looked over her shoulder warily and the cat lapped at the carpet.

She'd bid a fond goodbye to her parents just a few moments ago, arranging to meet them at King's Cross in a week so they could see her off before school. She knew this was partially because her mother was fascinated by the wizarding world and partially because they were both hoping to see extra safety measures in place before the start of term. That, she thought with a snort, wouldn't be a problem. The Prophet, between its front page waffle and the gossip that was still brewing around so many of the people she held dear, had included a tiny excerpt detailing the escort of aurors that would patrol the platform and then Hogsmeade. So she'd kissed her parents on the cheek, told them not to worry, stepped into the suddenly accommodating fireplace and clearly directed herself to the Burrow.

Before she had time to set herself back on her feet and brush the ash off her jeans, she was abruptly tugged forward into the arms of the Weasley matriarch who displayed absolutely no regard for scattering ash all over the place as she enveloped Hermione in a warm, rib-cracking hug. Molly Weasley was a woman Hermione had immediately adored. She wore her heart on her sleeve and the fire of her temper and motherly nature made her a force to be reckoned with in any setting. She wrapped her arms around the woman and gasped a quick thank-you and greeting as best she could at one sixth her usual lung capacity.

"Hermione, dear," the woman beamed as she released her and allowed the young witch a moment to catch her breath, "so happy to see you! You look absolutely wonderful! Ginny's waiting for you on the landing and I'm sure Ron will be down shortly. He went off to take a shower, poor love. I think he's trying to make a good impression." She said the last bit in a sort of conspiratorial whisper that brought a blush to Hermione's cheeks and did nothing to diminish the butterflies that had sprung to life in her stomach at the mention of the youngest Weasley male.

She was quickly shunted up the stairs as Mrs. Weasley magicked her trunk up to Ginny's room with a quick pop, siphoned the ash off them both and turned to feed Crookshanks a stray bit of bacon from the frying pan.

True to her word, Ginny was waiting on the landing with an amused smile on her face. The only daughter of the Weasley family had grown over the summer. She was taller now, the baby fat giving way to a willowy frame and Hermione allowed herself a small smile as she remembered the Slytherins taunting her for her childish appearance. This term they wouldn't know what hit them.

"Nothing quite like a greeting from Mum to qualify you for a trip to St. Mungo's for bone repair." She quipped, surveying Hermione's ruffled appearance with a raised brow. The brunette simply laughed and hugged the redhead fondly. "Oh, I'll survive," she told her friend as they headed back up the stairs to Ginny's room. "Any news?"

Ginny's bedroom was very different from Hermione's. Where Hermione kept her dwellings in a nearly surgical state of tidiness, Ginny's room was the picture of organized chaos. Posters of the Weird Sisters and the Harpies adorned the closet door, flashing wicked smiles as they waved. The windowsill was decorated with an array of odd trinkets including a musical muggle greeting card that Hermione recognized. Last year the Weasley twins had charmed it to shout profanities whenever it was opened. Mrs. Weasley hadn't been pleased. The bedroom walls were the same shade of pleasant yellow as always but the ceiling, she noted, had been painted again. This time it depicted a sky at sunset.

"Not really," the redhead sighed. "Harry is still with the muggles, though I suppose he'll show up in a day or two. Always does around this time. And Ron is still on about quidditch tryouts so he's out of the house most days. It's been too quiet here since Fred and George left. Honestly, you should have seen Ron's face when I explained to him that the hot water never actually runs out here. The twins have just been finding ways to turn it cold on him for years. It was always a good laugh catching Ron with his guard down. I got him good with a pack of Filibuster's wet-works myself once." She giggled at the memory and, catching Hermione admiring the ceiling, allowed herself a rather smug smile.

"Dean helped me with it at the start of the summer hols. Rather good, isn't it? He's quite the artist."

Hermione nodded, still staring at the ceiling for a moment before fixing her friend with a shrewd look.

"Dean Thomas? And you said there was no news!" She prodded Ginny's foot with the tip of her shoe as she narrowed her eyes. "How long has _that_ been going on? And how in blazes did you get him in your room without your mum having kittens?"

They settled down on the bed as Ginny recounted her summer with a pinkish tinge to her cheeks and much eye-rolling.

"Well, he asked me out right before the holidays started and with everything that's been going on, I decided why the hell not? I may as well live a little if the end of the world is coming, and I kept in mind what you said last year, too..." Hermione recalled Ginny's fourth year at Hogwarts with a pang of sympathy, remembering the girl's tear-strewn face when she heard about Harry's interest in Cho Chang. She'd sat with her friend and tried to calm her down by reminding her that Harry, for all his fame, was still as clueless as any boy his age. She'd told the youngest Weasley that maybe it was time to move on and let herself out of her shell a little... not necessarily let go of her crush for good, but to try to act naturally around him. Hermione knew that Harry and Cho were as unlikely to form a lasting relationship as Snape was to take up tap dancing. The Ravenclaw was nice enough, but it was obvious that she was still holding onto the past and no amount of snogging was going to change that.

"As for getting him into my bed-" Both girls jumped as the bedroom door banged open and Ron peered in with a towel draped around his shoulders and a bright orange toothbrush still lodged between his teeth.

"Who the hell are you getting into your bed?" Ron demanded, his face suddenly turning a splotchy purple as he sprayed toothpaste across the carpet.

"The bed _room_ , Ron," Ginny snapped with a scathing glare at her brother. "Dean painted my ceiling and the door was open the whole time. You and Mum were there, if you recall. I'm sure even you remember that, even if you do have the memory of a drainpipe. And that's no way to greet Hermione."

Ron's face flushed with embarrassment, noticing Hermione for the first time as she wiped toothpaste off her sleeve.

"Mione?" At least that's what he tried to say, though it ended up as more of a gargle.

"Hello to you too, Ron," Hermione climbed to her feet and gave him an amused smile as the freckled boy quickly wiped his mouth with the towel.

"S'good to see you, Mione!" He gave her a rather damp hug that left Hermione feeling quite jittery and pink in the face as the two stood awkwardly at Ginny's door. "You've gotten shorter."

Ginny's laughter pealed through the room.

"Not everyone grows at such disturbing heights, you idiot," She reprimanded him. "Maybe you've just got some troll in you."

"Then there'd be troll in you too, seeing as you're my sister," retorted Ron bitterly, retreating from the doorway. "Anyway, Mione, Mum says to come down. She's gone overboard with dinner again."

* * *

Draco paced back and forth in the drawing room like a caged anime. His mother had finally summoned him out of his chambers, demanding he eat something.

"Just a little toast," she'd pleaded with him, her heart breaking as she saw the restless panic in his eyes.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so claustrophobic. Even the family portraits on the walls had given up feigning sleep as a bad job and were watching him intently. He could feel their eyes on him with every step he took across the hearth of the cavernous fireplace. He wished he could simply floo away but he had nowhere to go. Blaise wouldn't be able to help him from the confines of his own chamber in Italy. He was waiting out the summer while his mother made the papers with another shopping spree, her latest husband rapidly declining in health. And sod the other classmates who called him friend. Their families were as twisted as his own.

And that left... nothing. Nothing but this miserable, ornate prison he'd always called home.

There was a loud crack and a diminutive figure in a silver sheet appeared, balancing a large tray in its twiglike arms.

"Thank you, Simpky." Narcissa gestured to the food as the house elf placed the assortment on a carved table between the two Malfoys. "Draco, eat."

Manners all but forgotten, Draco rounded on his mother with a snarl.

"To what end? To be slaughtered later like a fattened duck? How does that make me any better than that tray in front of you?" Narcissa eyed the foie gras on the platter with a sidelong look and her lower lip trembled for a moment before she fixed her blue eyes on her son.

"I will help you, darling. In whatever way I can. And we will prevail as we always have. But you must keep your strength up. The Dark Lord demands much, but he has honored you beyond all others in this task." The words sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

Draco scoffed and pushed himself away from the mantel. Lifting a dish, he took a bite of the offending food and wiped his fingers on his robes with a twisted sort of exultation in breaching the very basics of etiquette. A portrait on the wall hissed in disapproval and Narcissa paled as he strode from the room. He had no appetite for food or for the games his family played.

* * *

Draco shut the door to his bedroom with a snap and immediately searched the desk for a piece of parchment. His quill was poised above the ink bottle before he realized he had no one to talk to. Even if he wanted to, the Dark Lord had expressly forbidden him to share the details or actions of his task.

Bile rose in his throat as he pictured again and again his impending death. He'd imagine it would take quite a while. His new Lord had a penchant for causing pain and destruction. He wished there was someone who could help. Anyone. He didn't even care if it was a bleeding mudblood as long as he got out of this mess alive.

For a fleeting instant he pictured Granger, her mouth set in a hard line as she hammered her fist into his face in third year. The punch had hurt, yes, but he knew the damage to his pride had been far greater. That's why she had done it... to best him with such a base form of muggle combat. To show him that his precious pureblood status was only a title that couldn't protect him. For once in his shallow life, he wished he'd understood her intent back then. Maybe it would have led him down a different path.

The tap of quill against bottle shook him from his thoughts and he was scratching into the parchment before he realized what he was doing. The words didn't come easily. He didn't know what to ask, only that he needed to hear something different. Something new. And perhaps it would only prove that his family was right and that pure blood was the most precious thing in his existence. Perhaps it would cement him into believing again what he once had. But he needed to try. He needed to be proven wrong. His hand shook but he visualized the determined set of Granger's jaw all the while.


End file.
